Blackest Day
by coinilius
Summary: Ultraman returns from the events of the Final Crisis as a Vampire, intent on raising an undead army to attack his former teammates in the Crime Syndicate of Amerika and bring about the Blackest Day.
1. The Gathering part 1

**1.**

Lightning lashed across a midnight sky that was bloated and heavy looking, weighed down by oil-black clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. There was a storm on the horizon, creeping ever closer, slowly closing in on Coast City and its surrounding suburbs.

It was almost too perfect a scene, the solitary figure - little more than a shadow given form - considered as it stalked through the small, almost forgotten cemetery on the outskirts of the city. How many horror stories had there been which had started just like this? A dark and stormy night, a lone figure threading its way between the tombstones with diabolical intent… it was indeed almost too perfect.

But then, why shouldn't it be? After all, that was exactly what this was; a horror story. The oldest story of them all, one of blood and vengeance; thick and red and hot to the taste.

Wind whipped between the graves, pushed ahead of the on-coming storm like a banshee, screaming death to all that heard its cries. It was his presence here that was drawing this storm, the dark specter was sure of it; his very presence was a corruption of nature, even in a world where the very essence of nature was corruption itself. With every step he took, the earth blackened and burned beneath his feet; he was an undead thing, and he brought living death with him wherever he went.

And he had a very specific destination in mind.

* * *

The gravestone was a simple thing, cheap and unremarkable; a paupers grave, hidden away in a forgotten corner. Overhead, lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the name engraved onto the headstone.

Not that the figure needed the light by which to read; even before he had become what he was now, his eyesight had been very, _very_ sharp. And besides, he knew exactly who was buried here. The headstone read 'Jordan Harrolds', but that had been only one of the many names that its occupant had gone by.

"As unloved in death as you were in life, eh 'old friend'?" the figure said as he examined the grave. His voice was heavy and rasping, like someone speaking with a mouth full of dirt. "But I suppose that's to be expected… you died as you lived, weak and conflicted."

The figure knelt down before the grave, placing a hand on the ground; feeling the soil, caressing it as if it were a lover's flesh. In response to the touch there came a scratching noise, soft at first, but growing steadily louder - scritch, scritch, scriiithhh - from deep under the earth.

"But you weren't always weak, were you? What happened to the younger Jordan Harrolds, the man I first met all those years ago?" the figure asked; there was almost a sense of longing to his voice, of fond remembrance of things past. "You were _hungry_ then, driven by anger against a world that you felt owed you so much, yet had given you so little."

As he spoke, the scratching grew louder and louder, taking on a different sound; now it was a banging – boom, boom, boooom - as of fists hammering to be free.

"So I give you the same gift that was given to me – the gift of living death," the figure said, standing up once more and spreading his arms wide. "I give you a second chance!" Thunder crashed around him, mixing with the rising sound of beating fists - boom, boom, boooom – to reach a mad crescendo. Suddenly, a hand smashed up through the earth before him, the ring it bore burning with an unearthly, blue-black fire.

 _"_ _I give you back your hunger!"_


	2. The Gathering part 2

**2.**

This far from Coast City the storm should have been nothing more than a nasty weather report at best, or an inky black bruise on the horizon at worst. But he carried the storm with him, did he not? Carried it through the arteries of Amerika like a disease, bearing down on the beating heartland of this great, corrupt country.

Central City loomed before him, her great glass and concrete towers huddled together for protection against the on-coming storm and the dangers of the night. Even at this late an hour, thousands of lights peeped out from the cities windows, so scared were its inhabitants of the darkness that surrounded them. Even in a world like this, mired as it were in the darkest impulses of human nature, some deeper impulse still had them reaching for the safety of the light. Clawing at it.

Pathetic, mewling little creatures. How much he hated them.

If he wanted to, he could bring the full fury of the storm against them; a black, bloated fist to smash their city from the face of the Earth, to wipe away their precious, pathetic light. Heaven knows, he didn't need the fury of the storm, or the power of the night, to do that. He could tear Central City apart with his own two hands; had done so before to other cities, for lesser grievances, both real and imagined.

But not tonight. Not now. He was here for a different reason _this_ night, with perhaps a more deadly purpose.

He was here for the Gathering.

* * *

Like the Gods of Old, the Crime Syndicate of Amerika had each adopted a city as their own, to protect and exploit however they saw fit. And it was through this cruel patronage that their chosen cities were allowed to fatten and grow, like tumours under the skin of Amerika.

Central City belonged to Johnny Quick.

But there had been more than one Johnny Quick, had there not? The original had been murdered by his apprentice; his blood drained and used to create the 'Speed Juice' that the new Johnnie Quick needed to maintain his powers, and through them his stolen position in the criminal hierarchy of this dangerous world.

At least, that was how the story went. That was the story as told by Johnny Quick – the _new_ Johnny Quick, obviously. It was a _good_ story. A _believable_ story.

But it was _just_ a story.

Because if the Speed Juice was made from his predecessors blood, how did Johnny Quick keep up such a continuous supply of it? Oh _sure_ , there was the synthetic stuff that was cooked up by the mobs and governments of the world to give to him as tribute… but that was artificial, low-grade; the power it gave was nowhere near as smooth, the come-down far more severe than with the good stuff. The _real_ stuff.

No, quite appropriately given the current circumstances, Johnny Quick needed _blood_. A constant, _fresh_ supply.

* * *

The safe house was very well protected, hidden under multiple layers of lead shielding and miss-directing electromagnetic screens, designed to keep even Ultraman's prying eyes away. Its defense systems were such that they could have comfortably kept out a small army, if it ever came to that.

None of that mattered, however. No lock could keep him out. No door could bar him. The figure slipped through the darkness of Johnnie Quick's safe house, undetected, unseen and unchallenged.

He had always known what was kept here; he wasn't an idiot, no matter what _some_ may have thought of him. But he had kept quiet about it, pretended to go along with the story Johnny Quick had told to hide the truth.

Electronic locks clicked over, tumblers slid into place; the final seal was broken. Three foot thick Promethium-Titanium alloy doors slowly creaked open before him, offering up their long guarded secrets.

Before him hung the desiccated figure of a broken man, dressed in a now filthy red body suit. Once it had clung to his well-muscled body like a second skin, but now it hung loose; the skin of a diseased and dying old man.

Entangling the pathetic figure was a spider's web of distinctly medical looking tubes and piping, each one carrying some fluid or another, either into or out of the living corpse that was string out before him. Water, electrolytes, food stuffs… And _blood_.

It had been the blood, you see, the blood had been the give-away. The blood was the key, just as it always was.

"Hello, Johnnie," the shadowed figure said, his smile felt more than seen in the darkness that enveloped him. "You know, you've really let yourself go, old friend. You look terrible."

The shell of the man that had once been Johnny Chambers, better known as the original Johnny Quick, tried to raise its head, to look upon this new visitor. For years, the only company Johnny Chambers had been allowed was that of his former assistant, come to leer and gloat and stick him full of new needles and tubes; to keep him like this, suspended between life and death, to drain him continuously of his Speed Force infused blood.

"Pu… please," the thing that had been Johnny Chambers managed to say; his voice was cracked and broken from disuse, sounding more like a death rattle than actual words. "Please… kill me…"

The other figure's smile grew even wider; wide enough to show some teeth, sharp animal canines which glinted even in the darkness he wore cloaked around him. "Oh Johnnie," he replied, a hint of laughter at the edges of his voice.

"That's just the _start_ of what I have planned for you!"


	3. The Gathering part 3

**3.**

By now the storm was nothing more than the far-off rumblings of distant thunder; fading echoes that rolled their way around the outskirts of Centropolis, like the marbles of the Gods, before finally falling silent.

The city had weathered the storm, as it had many a storm before and would many more to come. It was a strong city. Powerful. But in the final analysis, it was _just_ a city, just like any other; walls erected against the night, fortifications to separate the darkness within from the darkness without.

For while the storm had receded, light had not yet come to the city of Centropolis. Dawn was still an hour away; that awful twilight hour, suspended between the night and the day. Between life and death. It was the Hour of the Wolf.

And the Wolf was indeed at the door…

* * *

Superwoman stalked through the Brownstone apartment she shared with her husband. Or at least, that she _usually_ shared with him; after all, he had been missing as of late, had he not?

Oh sure, he had disappeared for long stretches at a time before, they both had; caught up as they could get in their various enterprises or their extra-marital dalliances… It was all part of the game they played with each other, the dance in which no matter how many times they swapped partners, they always, _always_ , circled each other.

But it was _different_ this time. _Had_ been for quite a while, in fact; ever since they had met their Positive Matter selves, the Justice League of America, it had felt as if their entire world had been set off-kilter. Like they were ghosts, haunting their own lives. Phantom Strangers, passing in the night.

On _this_ particular night something had awoken her from her sleep; some deep unease that had caught her completely off-guard, slipping in like a thief in the night to stab at her heart of hearts. She was always alert to her surroundings, always on edge – a necessary survival mechanism for one such as her, living in a world such as this – but this was a different feeling, more primal; a feeling she hadn't allowed in herself for a very, _very_ long time.

Superwoman, daughter of Ares, last of the Amazons and one of the most powerful beings on this – or indeed, any other – planet, felt afraid of the dark.

* * *

"There's no need to afraid, Lois, the dark won't hurt you. Not yet, in any case."

The voice cut across her thoughts; cold and earthy, like something from the grave, but unmistakable none the less. It was her husband's voice, the voice of the man that she, despite all that had happened between them, still loved; the only man she could _ever_ love. As he spoke, the pre-dawn shadows that still clung to the living room of their Brownstone apartment seemed to shift and separate, like fingers on some great giant's hand, opening to reveal his figure in all its dark majesty. He stood framed in the doorway which opened from the living room onto the balcony; on the threshold between the world outside and the world shared within.

Ultraman, the Tyrant of Steel, had come home.

"Clark?" Superwoman replied, her normally imperious voice catching slightly as she spoke. She took a halting step forward, then stopped. Could he read her mind? His words had spoken to exactly what she was feeling, if not thinking; could he see right through her? See the little girl, shivering in the dark, alone and scared?

In that moment she suddenly hated him; for disappearing, for coming back, for making her feel _weak_. For some reason, everything about him now made her sick to her stomach. "Where have you been?" She asked, letting some of that anger into her voice. "You disappear for a month, then show up in the middle of the night like nothing has even happened? You know the rules, Kent…"

"There was a crisis," Ultraman replied, cutting her off. "A _final_ crisis, as it was called… but then, aren't they all final, in their own way?"

"What are you talking about?" Superwoman asked, her anger falling away; in its place returned that sense of unease she had felt earlier, of crawling dread. There was something not quite right about it all, not right about the man who was her husband, in a way that was different to the _usual_ ways in which he wasn't quite right. "You're not making any sense…"

"My dear, sweet little Lois," he replied, taking a step towards her. As he did so, she involuntarily drew back, shrinking away from him. She realized now that his figure, like his voice, was different somehow; changed in some subtle, but important, way. "Nothing makes sense. Not yet. But it will."

Although no longer shrouded in shadow, he still seemed to carry the darkness within him; the blue of his bodysuit appeared almost black, while his cape was the color of blood, thick and congealed. And then there were his _teeth_ , the way in which they seemed to catch the light, even in the darkness...

"I have been to the end of all things and beyond… and I've come back, changed by my experience," the thing that had once been her husband continued. Because that was what he was; a thing. A dead thing, masquerading as the man she loved. "I have heard the word of the one, true, God; the Black Gospel of Mandrakk! And he has remade me in his image, as his Vampire Superman! I am become his First Knight of Terror! But not the last, not by far."

"What do you want from me?" Superwoman asked, her voice almost a whisper. "Why have you come back?"

"Isn't it obvious? Despite all the betrayals and the backstabbing, we're still drawn to each other. Still love each other – or as close to love as beings such as us can ever feel. We're flip sides of the same coin – we complement each other. We need each other." As he spoke he drew closer and closer, and this time she didn't back away. "Join me. Drink deep the blood of Mandrakk and let us end this world together!"

And she was tempted. God below, but she _was_ tempted; because even now, knowing what he had become, there was a _power_ about him. An irresistible pull. She closed her eyes as the Vampire Ultraman leaned towards her, breathing in the sickly sweet aroma of Death that surrounded him.

"Give me your choice," he whispered in her ear. "Say it. Out loud. Say it!"

Because in the end, they always circled each other, did they not? That was the dance they were trapped in. The Death Dance. Death as Life. Life as Death. But for her, there could only be one choice. For while she _reveled_ in death, while she _caused_ death…

"Life!" She cried out. "I choose _life_!" Opening her eyes, she expected to see him standing before her, his true face revealed in the moment before he sunk his teeth into her neck to suck the life from her veins, the precious life that she would fight until the very end to hold onto. But instead she saw…

Dawn. After being washed clean in the storm from the night before, the city of Centropolis practically gleamed as the first few fingers of light groped at the horizon. Of the thing that had been her husband – of the Vampire Ultraman – there was no sign he had ever even been there as anything more than a particularly vivid dream. A waking nightmare, given form and power in that awful twilight hour, in the Hour of the Wolf.

But it hadn't been a nightmare. The Wolf was still at the door, waiting for its chance to strike.

Despite the promise of a new day, Superwoman found little comfort in the coming of the dawn; for now she couldn't help but feel that all the light did was give the darkness places in which it could hide…


	4. Blackest Day part 1

**1.**

The twin spires of the Panopticon thrust up from the lunar surface like a rude gesture; a two-fingered salute aimed at the planet Earth, which hung in the black sky above. The Earth, for its part in all this, seemed indifferent to the slight, whether intended or imagined.

But despite the defiant posturing of their Moon-based headquarters, the Crime Syndicate themselves were in a less than vainglorious mood. Something had rattled the normally confident Super-Criminals, something that had been carried in on the storm of the night before and had refused to leave when that self-same storm had disappeared. Even though they had not all been affected, at least not directly, they had still all felt it; felt the same dark unease that had awoken Superwoman in the night, the same shadow that had passed over all their graves.

Now they were gathered in the meeting room of the Panopticon; Johnny Quick. Power Ring. Superwoman. Owlman. Amerika's gravest villains. At least, that's what they _used_ to be. It was quite possible that the term _gravest_ had now taken on an entirely _different_ meaning for some… such as the one member of the Crime Syndicate _not_ present, for starters.

Ultraman.

The Tyrant of Steel; of Tomorrow; of Centropolis; of the entire Mammon-forsaken world, when you got right down to it. He had been the first of a new breed of Super-Criminal - the 'inspiration' for them all, you could say - and the founder of the Crime Syndicate of Amerika.

So how many times was it _now_ that the rest of them had gathered under these circumstances? Perhaps not this _exact_ situation, but similar enough; the four of them, rallied together to draw plans against their once and future leader. Because, and this was the most ridiculous part of all, he _would_ be their leader again; if they didn't kill him, or if he didn't kill them… and even then, that wasn't necessarily a barrier, especially not at the moment. The Prometheus Gate affair, the Coalition of Tyrants, those experiments with Proto-Matter that he thought no one knew about…

He had been their founder, yes, their inspiration; but that fire which had burned within him, that passion and fury which had driven him to bring together the most powerful – and, by extension, most volatile – Super-Criminals on the planet and to _make it work_ … that didn't simply go away. He was still on fire, still burning from within, and he threatened to burn the world down with him.

It would always come to this, in the end; Ultraman would turn against his own creations, try to smash them from existence so he could start all over again, and they would fight against him. Everything that made them work so well together as a team, what had allowed them to last this long without self-destructing, was exactly what lead them to the brink of self-destruction on such a regular basis. It was inevitable. Undeniable.

"So… are we sure that Ultraman really _does_ wants to kill us?"

Superwoman and Owlman both glared at Power Ring; although Owlman's eyes were hidden behind the reflective lenses of his helmet, the ring wielding super-criminal could tell that his expression was particularly withering. It always was.

"What?" Power Ring threw his hands up in mock exasperation. "Seems like a fair enough question to me… After all, he didn't hurt Superwoman, did he? And he had her dead to rights." He winked at the normally Amorous Amazon. "No pun intended." There was pun intended.

Unfortunately for Power Ring, even if his attempt at humour _had_ actually been funny, Superwoman was definitely not in the mood for jokes. "How dare you," she shouted back at him, her eyes literally burning as she remembered her earlier encounter with the thing that had been her husband; the fear and revulsion she had felt in his presence. But worse still than that, she remembered the perverse lust she had felt as well, the desire to just let go and join him in the darkness; to be his, forever and ever, and damn all who got in their way.

He had hurt her, alright, in the way that only lovers can.

"You weren't there! You don't know what he did, how he… he…"

Before things could escalate any further, in whatever direction that might be, Owlman placed a restraining hand on Superwoman's arm, noting as he did so that she flinched slightly at his touch, though she also didn't pull away. She had always been emotional, yes, but she was always so sure in her emotions, so strong in them. He didn't like seeing her like this, so rattled; so weak.

"I thought you were meant to be the smarter of the two replacement Power Rings, Stewart," Owlman said; his expression was already as severe as it was going to get, so he had to put as much disdain into his voice as possible to help get his point across. "So how is that you can be so Anti-Christing stupid at a time like this?"

Power Ring looked over at Johnny Quick for support, but the normally hyperactive speedster merely shrugged in a way that said 'this is your mess, leave me out of it' just as succinctly as words ever could. More so, considering he usually spoke at speeds of up to a thousand words a minute.

"So Ultraman's a Vampire now," Power Ring replied, leaning forward. "So what? Why would he want to kill us? Why not try and convert us? Make us all into his 'children of the night' or whatever, like he offered to do to Superwoman?"

"Is that what you want?" Johnny Quick suddenly spat up; although you could hear the shock and anger in his voice, his speech patterns were much more subdued than they usually were, much slower. "To be turned into a… a Vampire?"

Power Ring looked at him sideways, out of the corner of his eyes. "Nah man, that's not it - I just don't know what any of this means, what we're supposed to do… are we supposed to start sleeping with stakes under our pillows? Eat a lot of garlic heavy foods? What does a Vampire Ultraman want from us?"

"Now you're starting to get it," Owlman replied, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"What, you mean we _are_ supposed to eat a lot of garlic heavy foods?" Power Ring ventured hesitantly.

"No, you idiot," Owlman snapped back, rolling his eyes behind his goggles. Sometimes he suspected that they feigned incompetence just to annoy him, other times he was sure it was just incompetence. Either way, they certainly succeeded in getting on his nerves. "You were on the right track when you suggested that a Vampire Ultraman would want to convert allies to his cause, you were even right in thinking that he would recruit from the ranks of his former teammates. You were just wrong in assuming that he would exclusively target his _living_ teammates.

"Ultraman doesn't need to turn anymore of _us_ into the undead… he's got his very own Vampire Syndicate of Amerika already!"


	5. Blackest Day part 2

**2.**

They were gathered in the trophy room of the Flying Fortress; Ultraman. Johnny Chambers. Jordan Harrolds. Strong contenders for the title of Amerika's gravest villains. In fact, you could even go so far as to say they were _beyond_ the gravest; because they were the Vampire Syndicate of Amerika, as Owlman had so aptly named them, and the pun was completely intentional.

It had been Ultraman who had gathered them together during the storm of the previous night, raising them up from death, and near death; they had drunk from the poison cup of Mandrakk and so they were reborn into new life _beyond_ death. They were his fellow Knights of Terror now, in service to an insane Vampire God.

He had offered the same cup to Superwoman, but she had rejected it, and in doing so, rejected _him_. It had been out of some kind of foolish sentiment that he had given her a choice in the first place, only to have it thrown back in his face.

She had hurt him, in the way that only a lover can.

But that was alright; that was part of the game they played. She had hurt him, so he in turn would hurt her back. Except this time, the consequences of her indiscretion would be far more _final_ in nature. She had chosen _life_ , and in doing so, she had chosen to _die_ along with the rest of the Crime Syndicate of Amerika.

Before they could kill them, however, there were preparations to be made; with the rising of the sun over Centropolis, the newly created Vampire Syndicate had been forced to retreat to the safety of the Flying Fortress, closing its heavy metal shutters against the dawning of the light. For now, they had to hide themselves away from the terrible, terrible gaze of the sun… but even that wouldn't last forever; the dying of the light meant the rising of Mandrakk, forever and ever. Can I get an 'Amen'?

"Drink up, my Knights of Terror," the Vampire Ultraman announced, raising a glass; it contained a deep, red liquid that could have been wine, but wasn't. "I know how thirsty you must be after your long slumbers, how much the hunger burns within you…"

Instead of raising glasses of their own in acknowledgement Johnny Chambers and Jordan Harrolds were still a little less 'refined' in their culinary habits; before they had been forced to retire to the cavernous interior of the Flying Fortress to wait out the daylight hours, the Vampire Syndicate had made a quick stop-over to pick up some 'take-away' dinner, as it were. Now, that poor, unfortunate victim was stretched out spread-eagle on a table before them, his arms and legs strapped down while the two just-born Vampires greedily feasted on his life's blood, gorging themselves on the precious liquid. While Ultraman had slit the man's throat to fill his glass, they were content to drink it straight from the tap; sinking their teeth into the veins on his out-stretched arms.

"The hunger for destruction, the hunger… for revenge," the Vampire Ultraman continued, sipping from his glass as he watched his 'creations' drain their first victim dry; their first, but not their last. Not by far. This pathetic specimen was just an appetiser, a hors d'oeuvre to whet their palate for the real feast to come.

"Yesss," Chambers said, looking up from his feeding. His mouth was covered with blood, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. "Revenge… on that upstart piece of shit, Slipstream. I should have let him choke on his own vomit years ago, the pathetic junkie that he was. Instead he stabs me in the back and drains my blood like some kind of…."

"Vampire?" Harrods suggested, finishing his own meal.

"The irony isn't lost on me," Chambers replied, looking sideways at his teammate.

"And nor should it be," Ultraman said, striding around the table. "In fact, it's absolutely _perfect_. All the dirty little secrets that the Crime Syndicate had thought buried – literally – coming back to haunt them. Ghosts of the past, ushering in a new world order built on blood and terror."

"So… not much different to the old one," Harrolds suggested, watching as Ultraman circled them like a blue and red shark. "Except this time we drink the blood?"

Ultraman smiled. It was all teeth. "You wouldn't believe how much I've missed you, old friend," he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You really lost your way there, for a while… it's funny how it took dying and being brought back as a Vampire to help show you who you really are."

Harrolds held up the hand on which he still wore the Ring of Shadows. "Yes," he agreed, staring at the blue-black ring; its surface pulsed with a dark energy, flickering like flame. "I still can't believe those fools in the Justice Underground actually buried me with my ring and power battery."

"Heroes – much like villains – like to bury their mistakes, to hide their failures," Ultraman replied. "But nothing stays buried forever, as you both can no doubt attest too. Eventually, all will have their day in the sun."

"And to think, I was so scared of this ring when I was still alive, and human," Harrolds continued his musings, as if Ultraman hadn't interrupted. "Scared I would be corrupted by its dark influence and fall back into old habits… Now I realise what I fool I was to resist it for so long, to resist my true nature…"

"Yes well, don't get used to it," Ultraman said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm afraid the Master has a greater need for the Ring of Shadows and its accompanying power battery than you do at the moment, Harrolds."

The other Vampire narrowed his eyes as he instinctively reached up to touch the precious ring on his finger; it was cold to the touch, cold and terrible. He found it very comforting. "You want my ring? My Shadow Lantern? You think you can bring me back from the dead and then take my greatest power away from me?"

"I don't… but Mandrakk does," Ultraman replied, meeting his gaze. There was a tense moment between the two as they sized each other up, holding each other's stare. Finally, it was Jordan Harrolds who blinked first. Not that there could be any other outcome.

"For Mandrakk," Harrolds said, lifting up his Shadow Lantern and placing his power ring against it. There was a momentary flash of blue-black fire and the Ring of Shadows disappeared, merging back into the strange, unnatural metal of the battery.

"Yes… for Mandrakk," Ultraman repeated, taking hold of the Lantern's handle. As he did so, he felt a short, sharp electric shock race up his arm, followed by a kind of exhilarating numbness. The Shadow Lantern was a powerful object, alive with dark energies; it would make a perfect offering for Mandrakk.

Watching intently as Ultraman handled the Shadow Lantern, Harrolds rubbed the empty space on his finger where the dark ring used to sit. "I feel… naked without a power ring," he said; there was a longing to his voice, a pathetic mewling that did not befit one of Mandrakk's Vampire Elite.

 _No wonder Harrolds could never handle true power,_ Ultraman mused. _He was always too weak willed. Still, he can be useful… and he just needs to be keep_ being _useful long enough to help get me what I desire._ "Don't worry, you'll have a new ring soon enough," Ultraman grunted, striding past the complaining figure of Harrolds. "Or should I say… an old one."

"Volthoom," Harrolds smiled as realisation dawned on him. "I've almost missed that sanctimonious old ghost."

"Green always was more your colour," Johnny Chambers spoke up, so he wasn't completely left out of the conversation.

"My friends, you might want to avert your eyes," Ultraman announced, putting an end to their banter. As he spoke, he pressed a hidden button on one of the metal pods which adorned his bodysuit. "It's about to get a little bright in here…"

Literally on cue, the heavy shutters that had closed off the observation deck of the Flying Fortress slowly began to open; as they did so, Harrolds and Chambers drew back instinctively, hissing in pain and fear as sunlight – terrible, terrible sunlight – spilled into the cavernous interior of their Secret Sanctuary.

Ultraman, however, stood his ground. What was sunlight to a being such as him? Yes it hurt his eyes, yes it made even his invulnerable skin crawl, but he was made of sterner stuff than the crawling idiots he was always doomed to be surrounded by. Sunlight was a weakness, and he had no weaknesses. Or at least none that he would admit to. Not for the first time this day, he wished that Superwoman had taken him up on his offer, before quickly pushing those feelings aside.

He winced (only a little, but it was noticeable) as he stared into the sun, raising one arm to sight along it as he drew back with the other, readying to throw the Shadow Lantern he carried. He had always had a good throwing arm, going back to when he was a quarterback in high school and college. But that was a lifetime ago now – two lifetimes ago, depending on how you looked at it. Clark Kent had died on the operating tables of that sick butcher, Jor-El, and Ultraman had died giving his life-blood to Mandrakk at the end of the universes. He was someone different again now; some _thing_ different, to be more precise. They all were; his Vampire Syndicate, his Knights of Terror.

And just as they had been remade, so too would they in turn remake the world. And then… why not other worlds beyond? In the name of the Vampire God they would sink their teeth into the entire universe and drink of the precious Bleed that flows through the veins of reality itself. But first, they needed to clear house…

"What are you doing with the Shadow Lantern?" Harrolds asked, interrupting the Vampire Ultraman's musings; he was watching the dark power battery with hungry eyes, no doubt wishing it was still in his possession. "Where are you sending it?"

"Home," the Vampire Ultraman replied, a slight smile creeping onto the corner of his lips as he remembered another lantern, on another world. With all his might, he threw the Shadow Lantern; up, up and away. "A home of a different colour…"

First, the Vampire Syndicate of Amerika would have their day in the sun.


	6. Blackest Day part 3

**3.**

"Isn't that right, Johnny?" Owlman asked, casually turning his head to indicate the unusually distracted speedster; not that it was unusual for Johnny Quick to _be_ distracted, just that normally he was distracted in a _differen_ t way than he was today. Hyperactive and hyper-annoying, he was usually wired up on so much Speed Juice he was practically buzzing, flitting from one subject to the next like an over-sized humming bird. But not so today; instead he seemed withdrawn, as if his thoughts were elsewhere, on some other subject.

"Huh? Why are you asking me?" he replied, nervously scratching at his neck. "What do I know about this… this Vampire Syndicate?"

"What indeed," Owlman said, tapping his taloned fingers against the conference table – tap, tap tappp. "How about we start with what you were hiding in that secret little vault of yours? The one that was broken into last night?"

Johnny Quick looked around, obviously agitated by Owlman's line of questioning. "I… I don't know what you're talkin' about, man, I don't know anything…"

"Cut the bullshit," Owlman snapped, slamming a gauntleted fist down on the meeting table. Johnny Quick recoiled as if he had been physically struck, practically falling out of his chair in fright. "Do you really think we're all that stupid, Johnny? That you could hide really anything from us – from me?"

"I didn't realise… didn't know… how you could know how could…?" The more agitated the speedster got, the faster his words became, increasing towards their usual incoherent fervour.

"Oh shut up," Owlman snarled, scaring his teammate once more into silence. "We don't care - if we did, we would have done something about it years ago."

"What's he talking about, Johnny?" Power Ring asked, his gaze flicking between the speedster and Owlman. "What were you supposed to be hiding?"

"Not 'what'… who," Superwoman said, her voice level. " _Who_ was he hiding?"

"John Chambers," Owlman supplied. "The original Johnny Quick. Still alive after all these years and strung up like a piñata in the new Johnny's basement. Your own personal blood bank, supplying the raw materials needed to keep up your supply of Speed Juice. Kind of ironic, given the current circumstances, wouldn't you all agree?"

Power Ring shook his head in mix of surprise and admiration. "No way," he said, his voice ringed with a touch of awe. "No Anti-Christing way." He had to admit, he was actually impressed by how twisted the whole situation was.

"So… so you knew what I did to Chambers this whole time?" Johnny Quick stammered, trying to make sense of the situation. "You knew what I did… and you didn't care? He was your teammate, your friend…"

"We don't have 'friends', Johnny, we're the Crime Syndicate!" Owlman snapped, cutting the speedster off mid-ramble. "As long as there was _a_ Johnny Quick, as long as the balance was maintained, that was all that mattered."

Across the table, Superwoman nodded her head in agreement. "And if we thought for even a second that you couldn't do the job, that you couldn't handle it, well, then we would have freed Chambers faster than even _you_ could have reacted…"

"Or Heaven knows, just found some other strung out junkie to give the Speed Formula to," Owlman supplied. "Face it, Quick, a super-fast monkey in a crash helmet could do _your_ job."

Power Ring laughed, "Yeah, and you could just pay him in bananas!"

"Laugh it up why don't ya, chuckles," Johnny Quick snarled. "Just remember, we've been through more Power Rings so far than we have Johnny Quicks…"

"Which brings the conversation rather neatly around to the next probable member of the Vampire Syndicate," Owlman interjected, pressing a button on his wrist gauntlet and activating the hologram projector in the middle of the conference table. Images swam into focus above them, multiple angle photographs of an open grave, the landscape around it withered and decayed.

"There was a cemetery desecration reported outside Coast City this morning," he explained, motioning to the floating pictures. "Initial police reports were exactly as limited as expected – they blamed it on grave-robbers; maybe the work of an Abrahamic cult, or even just another case of run of the mil necrophilia. And as usual, they were completely wrong. The body inside wasn't dug up; it dug _itself_ out. The dead are rising from their graves, and I think you can all guess whose name was on that headstone."

Power Ring's eye narrowed. "Harrolds."

Owlman nodded. "In the flesh, as they say; rotting as that may well be."

"Ultraman, Johnny Chambers, Jordan Harrolds," Power Ring said, counting them off on his fingers as he went. "The Vampire Syndicate of Amerika… but if Ultraman can raise the dead, why stop at just them? Why not raise an entire army of our dead enemies against us?"

"Why indeed? Ultraman _could_ raise an army… Mammon knows, he probably will…" Owlman explained, "But not yet. Not at first. His Vampire Syndicate has been chosen _too_ perfectly for his first move _not_ to be a strike against us. I know Ultraman… Hell, we _all_ know Ultraman. Even in death (or whatever you'd classify his current affliction as), he's still the same arrogant son of a bitch he's always been. He's weaponised the dead, and we're the target."

"So if that's the case," Power Ring continued, much to Owlman's annoyance; the ring-slinging super-criminal was still turning the situation over in his head like a Rubik's Cube, examining all the angles; "He's turned Jordan Harrolds and Johnny Chambers, he's tried to turn Superwoman herself… if he's chosen his Vampire Syndicate for their usefulness as weapons against the four of us, then whose the final member?"

"What do you mean?" Owlman snapped back; his voice was suddenly very terse, his inflection taking on a knife's edge quality. And Power Ring was dancing on the edge of that knife, and he knew it. "What 'final member' are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean, Owlman," Power Ring continued, deliberately pushing the caped crime lords buttons. Maybe it was all that talk earlier about how replaceable everyone who _wasn't_ a member of the Owlman-Superwoman-Ultraman ménage à trois really was, but he suddenly found that he no longer cared. This was all their fault, anyway; it was _always_ their fault. "Who's the stake he's going to drive through your heart? No pun intended."

There was a long, tense moment between the two super-criminals. It was clear that Power Ring's question was one that Owlman didn't want to answer, and conveniently for the caped crime lord, it was one whose answer would have to wait anyway; suddenly the tension was broken by the shrill bleating of the Panopticon's alarm siren as it cut across the conference room.

"Saved by the bell," Power Ring muttered.

"Yeah, but who was saved? Owlman… or _you_?" Johnny Quick sniped, pushing past him as they all moved towards the Panopticon's main monitor room. Power Ring ignored him.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Olwman said, flashing a look back at him; his face was a humourless mask, with no trace of the usual self-satisfied smirk he would wear in a situation such as this. "Ultraman has fired his opening salvo… our war with the Vampire Syndicate of Amerika has begun!"


	7. Blackest Day part 4

**4.**

As the gathered members of the Crime Syndicate of Amerika wound their way to the monitor room, the alarm continued to scream throughout the labyrinthine hallways of the Panopticon like a runaway banshee; screeet, screeet, screeeeeeeeet. As usual Johnny Quick got there first, already flickering between the various computer screens and terminals at super speed when the others arrived. _And as usual, he's just getting in the way,_ Owlman thought bitterly as he barged past the blurred after images of his hyperactive teammate.

"Sensorshavepickedupanobjectheadingwayfromtheearth," Johnny Quick verbally ejaculated; his fugue-like state from earlier having evaporated as adrenaline (and an increased dosage of Speed Juice) flooded his system.

"Away from Earth?" Power Ring asked, trying to take in the various telemetry readings and camera images that were flashing across the screens. "Does that mean this things coming towards us?"

 _"Based on current trajectory and observable exponential speed increases, object's course is projected to impact with local yellow dwarf star in less than five minutes time,"_ whispered the voice of Volthoom, from deep within the titular power ring on Stewart Johns' hand.

"Your ring is right," Owlman snarled, his eyes scanning the monitors around them as his drug enhanced super-cortex worked overtime to process all the information they were receiving; it annoyed him no end that that damnable monk Volthoom had beat him to the punch. How exactly did a dead poonghie inside a piece of jewellery know so much about astrophysics anyway? "Our mysterious object is on a collision course with the Sun!"

"But what is it?" Superwoman asked. "Is it a missile? Is it _Ultraman_?"

"No, it's none of those things," Owlman replied tersely, ignoring the slight pause he'd heard in Superwoman's voice when she'd said her husband's name; that small, involuntary waver. He would deal with _that_ later. For the moment, his attention was needed on the strange object hurtling up, up and away from the Earth at an ever increasing speed. Although it was small and moving fast, it was emitting a very powerful energy signature, one that the Crime Syndicate had encountered before. It wasn't a missile, and a _certainly_ wasn't Ultraman, although it did belong to one of his Vampire Syndicate. Even Owlman couldn't keep the surprise from sounding in his voice when he announced what the object actually was;

"It's a Lantern."

* * *

The Shadow Lantern, to be precise. Merged with the Ring of Shadows, it served as a repository for the distilled energies of the Lords of Chaos and Order; a perfect fusion of the primordial powers that were ever at war for the fate of the Universe.

And now, thanks to Ultraman, it carried within it a new, ancient power as well; an even more primordial force, darker and more terrible still.

It carried within it the Black Blessing of Mandrakk.

* * *

"I'm on it," Power Ring said and before Owlman could berate him for rushing in without thinking, he was already away and racing, chasing the Shadow Lantern as it hurtled inexorably towards the Sun. After all, he didn't have to take his orders from that smug, self-satisfied bastard Owlman anyway. He was _done_ taking orders; had been for some time now. Jordan Harrolds might have been content to play a supporting role to the Ultraman-Owlman-Superwoman show back when he was Power Ring, Stewart Johns wasn't! He wasn't just some Made Man, to be kicked around like a common dog; while he may not have been an original, he _was_ a fully-fledged member of the Crime Syndicate of Amerika, and one of the most _powerful_ members, at that.

Hell, maybe even _the_ most powerful, when you really stopped to think about it. After all, he was the one with the magic ring, he was the one with the power to literally make all his wishes come true; if he could imagine it, he could have it. And all he had to do was put up with some annoying old monk crawling around inside his head, trying to make him feel some kind of remorse for his actions.

Remorse! What a joke! Remorse was for weaklings, like Harrolds had been. Harrolds, who had slowly gone insane from the guilty conscience that the mad monk Volthoom had slipped inside him. Harrolds, who had tricked him into taking the ring, thinking he could escape the terrible curse he believed it had brought upon him. But the joke was on Jordan Harrolds; it wasn't the ring that was cursed, it was Harrolds himself! He had carried his own curse around, deep inside, even after he had given up the ring of Volthoom and taken up the Ring of Shadows in its place; he had carried the curse of his own weakness!

Oh, sure, the power ring from which they took their super-villain name did indeed, literally, have a curse upon it, but it was Harrolds who had ultimately lacked the strength with which to _fight_ that curse. Harrolds who had been weak his whole life, a hopeless bindlestiff who had simply let himself be blown about by the winds of fate; he had a hunger within him, yes, but he had lacked the conviction of his courage. Lacked the killer instinct that would have seen him seize the world by the throat and bite down until the blood was flowing fast and thick.

Stewart Johns didn't have that weakness.

He couldn't afford to be weak, not when he was sold into the slave marine when he was still just a teenager. Not when he was forced to fight for his life in the backwater wastelands of Amerika's enemies, always knowing that he had to survive, to bite and claw his way through to the other side. Everything he had, everything he was, he had had to fight for it. To kill for it. He didn't feel remorse when he was fighting in Malcolm's attack squads, slaughtering women and children in some foreign country or another, and he certainly didn't feel remorse just because some long dead monk was trying to give him a case of the sads.

That was something that the rest of the Crime Syndicate never realised about him, especially that arrogant bastard Owlman; they thought he was just another weakling with a magic ring, like Harrolds had been before him, or that other Power Ring, the one whose very life he had overwritten. Someone to be dismissed, to be overlooked. Just another supporting player, easily replaceable. It was high time he showed them all otherwise…

* * *

To Stewart Johnson, the Shadow Lantern hardly looked like it was moving at all; instead it seemed to hang there in space before him, a smear of the deepest blue-black almost imperceptible from the blackness around it. But it _was_ moving, and at quite a tremendous speed at that, getting faster and faster the further it travelled. Using the power of his own ring, Stewart was able to match the Lantern's speed, increasing his own so that he could catch it before it reached its final destination.

The Shadow Lantern had belonged to Jordan Harrolds, and so in some perverse way he had felt a sense of responsibility towards it. It was a sign of Harrolds weakness, resurrected along with its former owner to fulfil some diabolical purpose; and Stewart Johns, the current Power Ring, wasn't about to let it get that chance.

It was so close now, all he had to do was reach out and grab it; to pluck it from space, like a piece of fruit gone rotten on the vine. As his hand grasped the handle of the Shadow Lantern, he realised too late that he had become so adept at drowning out the voice of Volthoom inside him, had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, that he hadn't even noticed that the mad old bastard had talking to him the whole time… No, not talking; screaming at him!

Volthoom was screaming warnings in his disjointed ghost voice, until suddenly they weren't warnings anymore… the monk was simply screaming, period! Screaming and screaming, as the Shadow Lantern opened a conduit into the mind of Stewart Johns and the Black Blessing of Mandrake came upon him. Screaming and screaming, until he could taste blood in his throat and he realised that it wasn't Volthoom that was screaming at all…

And then there was silence. The Shadow Lantern continued inexorably on its way towards the sun, leaving Power Ring dead in space…

No pun intended.


End file.
